


Giving Myself Over Completely to You

by ARealPip



Series: Trading Bodies [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkwardness, Aziraphale isn't a sexual being, Banter, Consensual Possession, Drinking to Cope, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Honesty, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), Self-Sacrifice, Sex, Unselfish love, fear of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARealPip/pseuds/ARealPip
Summary: The only way to save themselves from the wrath of heaven and hell is for Aziraphale and Crowley to possess each other's bodies.  It is extremely dangerous.  They need to be trusting and courageous and vulnerable in ways they never have been before.  And they only have one night to figure it out.





	1. The Ride Home

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place between the moment they get on the bus and when they step out the next morning. 
> 
> Mostly canon-compliant. But instead of having them just change appearances, I have them possess each other. I want them to have to work really hard to earn the magical protections that will save them both. It needs to be extremely hazardous and absolutely dependent on the strength of their relationship. That's why Heaven and Hell can't even conceive of what they've done or how they've done it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles to interpret the prophecy so that he can protect Crowley from heavenly attackers. Meanwhile Crowley protects Aziraphale from homophobic humans.

_"Ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fyre."_

\--The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

Aziraphale and Crowley board the bus to London. Crowley waits in the aisle while Aziraphale talks to the driver. Heaven has turned its back on Crowley’s angel. All of the beings that he had put his faith and trust in for thousands of years have betrayed him and are, very likely, planning to murder him. He is on the run, perhaps days from death, and he chooses to give his precious time to a stranger. Crowley’s exasperated sigh somehow gets stuck in his throat and stays there, forming a very distracting lump.

Crowley rests his eyes on the familiar face of his oldest friend. He sees the tension behind the eyes, and then, miraculously, for just a moment, all the tension fades and, there it is, the little wrinkle of the nose and the merry flash of joy in the eyes as the angel shares a moment of laughter and human connection with a bus driver. 

Crowley chooses a seat by the window and slides in, resting his arm along the back of both seats. Aziraphale perches primly on the aisle seat. Aziraphale, mindful of the handful of other bus riders, lowers his voice and leans close. “If I am right, we may have very little time to interpret this prophecy and figure out our plan,” he says. Crowley touches the angel's back for a moment, and the angel's body relaxes. The lines of his face soften. He turns his golden face towards Crowley and says “Thank you dear boy.” Now that he feels himself to be in the correct contemplative state of mind, he sets himself to studying the scrap of paper in his hand, leaning forward to concentrate his energies. 

Crowley stretches his awareness out in every direction and finds, just as he expected, that Hell’s attention this evening is still very much occupied on managing the fury of millions of disappointed demons. He feels quite sure that Heaven is similarly occupied and that neither realm is at all aware of this particular bus slipping softly towards London.

"Playing with fyre," whispers Aziraphale, "That's clearly a reference to hellfire; presumably the danger I need to guard against. But what concerns me is that she doesn't say anything about you."

Crowley hates to see his angel's face unhappy, so he offers a thought: "Fairly obvious how they're going to dispose of a demon. Not worth mentioning."

Aziraphale still looks concerned. 

“I’d say that old Agnes Nutter knew that I’m not much for reading books and that I’d never crack her book open, so she didn’t bother with writing anything for me. I’d say she probably knew that you’d share what you knew with me,” says Crowley.

 **“** Now that I think about it," says Aziraphale, "she does say faces. That clearly implies that we are going to work together."

"What else would we do?"

"I’m certain that she meant to save both of us,” says Aziraphale.Crowley nods encouragingly and leans close. The spill of quiet words continues. “I have an idea of what she is getting at…,” continues the angel. “... a practical way to do it. After all…” Crowley stares directly into his bright eyes. They are, right now, a shade of green because Aziraphale is very earnest and a great deal worried. 

The angel leans forward again and resumes his intense contemplation of the scrap of paper. The demon resumes his intense contemplation of the angel. He watches the slightly damp white-blond curls which bounce back and forth almost imperceptibly with every tiny movement of their owner's head. After a time, when Crowley is certain that Aziraphale is completely absorbed in the paper, he very slowly moves his hand until the tip of his finger just brushes a stray curl. Nothing happens except that the angel’s shoulders unclench a little and he himself feels a tiny faint pleasant sensation in the tip of his finger. He returns his hand back to its earlier position. 

Aziraphale sits back with a sigh. He bites his lip and steals a glance at his companion. The demon appears to be staring into the middle distance, deep in thought. “Have you gotten any ideas?”, Aziraphale asks.

The demon shrugs noncommittally. “One or two.” 

“Ah.”

“I have a few more things to test out--- in my mind--- before I can be sure that my ideas will work.” 

“But you do think that there is a solution? You don’t think it might be better for us both to run away to Alpha Centuri?” asks the angel. “I would, you know.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that now,” responds Crowley, with a touch of annoyance. “Now that they blame us for ruining the entire apocalypse."

“How long do you think we have?” 

“I am fairly certain that we have at least tonight to ourselves.” Quite unconsciously, the angel sags against his arm in relief. A minute later, he leans forward to start his ruminating again. Crowley fears that Aziraphale will insist on thinking and rethinking over every word of the prophecy, retreading the same ground in an endless circular conversation, in hopes of neatly tracking down every possible ambiguity. The waste of time makes him want to howl in frustration. As a demon, Crowley has long been used to ambiguity. There are things he cannot know, and he refuses to sacrifice his present happiness to pointlessly think about the future. 

Crowley feels a flash of anger. How worthless it seems to him to waste what could be their last night together in self-torture. They could be laughing and reminiscing. He feels that it is time to end this. The demon pulls his outstretched arm back to his lap. He sits up and clears his throat. His angel turns his face towards him. “Put that scrap of paper away, Angel,” he says. 

“But, if I could have just a few more minutes, then I could be sure what Agnes intends for us…”

Crowley takes the paper away, allowing his fingers to brush Aziraphale’s. His fingertips nearly explode with a sudden feeling warmth that travels up his arm like a wave until it reaches his face, where the warm wave softens his frown lines and brings a glow to his eyes, which, alas, cannot be seen beneath his dark glasses. 

As for Aziraphale, Crowley’s brief touch totally unhinges him. “I’m completely at sea!” he suddenly sobs. “I can’t trust my own thoughts. I can’t trust anything anymore.” 

“Bullshit.” Crowley says, with equal parts affection and exasperation. “You know exactly who you can and can’t trust. You just don’t like it.”

Aziraphale is sputtering, but Crowley presses on. "You do. You know who your friends are. You know exactly who has protected you and who has given you good advice all this time and who was just using you. You just don't want to give up your ridiculous notions about good and evil."

"All right," resolves the angel. A curious thought nearly percolates to the top of his consciousness. He flails about, and finds a thought very near to the one he almost had. "I suppose I do have to just trust Agnes. It will all become clear at the proper moment."

If Crowley had the proper sort of pupils, he would be rolling his eyes. Unfortunately he doesn't and so he can't. Also, he is wearing sunglasses. His expression is therefore, inscrutable. He says: "She hasn't steered you wrong yet."

Aziraphale smiles. "You are right, of course. If she didn't like me, she wouldn't have sent me that cheeky little prophecy about my hot cocoa. Surely, if she could see into my life, she would know that you are….” The angel stammers. “I mean that, we are...” He trails off into silence. 

Crowley rescues him. “Tell me all about today. I want to hear all about how an angel actually managed to possess someone.”

“Well…”, a small twitch of a smile begins at Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“It is more in line with what my lot would do,” encourages Crowley. He turns his entire body on the seat so that their knees touch. He leans closer and nearly whispers “I didn’t know an angel could do that sort of thing. Didn’t think your side even knew how.”

Aziraphale turns sideways on his seat to face his friend. He rests an arm on the empty seat in front of him. He thinks that he looks dignified, but unknown to him, he is smiling a smile that manages to be both soppily loving and wickedly prideful at the same time.

“Well, I wasn’t thinking about how to do it really, I was thinking about YOU and how I needed to find you and warn you and I felt your presence and suddenly there I was talking to you and then, well, once I was sure that you had everything you needed, I was absolutely determined that you wouldn’t face the end of the world alone, so I felt this absolute crystal clear clarity that I WOULD find a way to be there with you.” 

Crowley nods encouragingly. “Then what?”

“Well, I discovered that it IS in fact possible to find a person who is actually willing to have their body be possessed. It took several tries to find the right sort of person.”

“Go on.”

“It isn’t really such a wrong thing to do…. to possess someone if that is the thing they want.”

Crowley makes a neutral sound, and leans back slightly. 

“And if you are nice about it, and ask politely and such.”

Crowley nods. 

“And it is an absolute requirement that they are open to receiving a divine-- well-- experience." 

Because Crowley's glasses are pointing at Azirphale's face, it takes him a few moments to realize that the demon is no longer watching him. When he notices, he pauses.

"Go on. I've got this. Keep talking," says Crowley. He moves slightly back from Aziraphale and places his feet carefully. 

"Well," continues Aziraphale, narrowing his eyes, "I was most fortunate in finding Madam Tracy. Frankly, I was shocked that she was willing, on such slight acquaintance, to ride into Armageddon." 

The man Crowley is watching is several seats behind them and across the aisle. He seems to be half-drunk and is staring at them both with a look of open contempt. He has a friend who seems less drunk, but is much larger.

"Humans," says Aziraphale, pausing slightly on the word, "can be very surprising".

"Yes," replies Crowley, wiggling two fingers in his lap and nodding his head slightly. "Hard to know what they'll do next."

Aziraphale, looking at the window behind Crowley, now sees the reflected shape of two men lurching up the aisle behind him, and draws his elbows to his sides. Crowley was right. Just men. Not demons or angels at all. He continues talking intently, his voice barely above a whisper. “I, for example, would never have known how to start up her motorized scooter, but she handled that flawlessly. All my miracles worked just as well as normal while we were sharing a body. Both of us were aware of everything that was happening, and yet….”

"...it was surprisingly easy to coordinate," Aziraphale is saying when he receives a not-unexpected thump in the back and hears a familiar hateful word menacingly spat into the air behind him. He jabs an elbow backwards and feels it hit home, as, in front of him, Crowley has launched himself and is standing on the seat, towering over both him and his attackers, baring his suddenly long and jagged teeth. Crowley looms forward and downward over Aziraphale and allows his sunglasses to fall low on his nose to reveal a glimpse of yellow snake-like eyes as he makes a low and menacing hiss like the steam engine of a hellish freight train. 

Behind Aziraphale, there is a terrified squeak and some loud thumping, followed by a scramble of limbs. 

And, in an instant, Crowley is seated again, and they are both facing forward, as if nothing has happened. Aziraphale and Crowley watch with detached amusement as the men scramble to their feet. The smaller, more drunken, one is dragging one leg at an awkward angle as he desperately tries to run. His erstwhile companion has already streaked down the aisle and out the side door of the bus. The smaller man finally tumbles down the stair and rolls onto the sidewalk. The doors shut.

“Looked like a pulled groin muscle to me,” muses Aziraphale. “Probably hurt for a week.”

“Awkward fall.” Crowley curls his lip in amusement.

They sit in silence. 

Aziraphale turns to Crowley. “I’m not sure why THAT word is so much worse than all the others. I don’t mind the others nearly as much. ‘Pansy’ doesn’t bother me a bit. But that one affects me so strongly.” 

“It’s the word they use when they want you dead.” 

“Huh,” ponders Aziraphale. “I do believe you are right.”

He continues. “I honestly can’t keep up. Human fashions do change so quickly. Behaviors that are completely normal in one century put them into a homicidal rage in the next.”

“A lot can change in a few centuries,” agrees Crowley. “May I touch your hand?” 

“Trying to incite the other humans?”

“Little experiment. Might turn out to be important.”

Aziraphale sighs and thrusts out his hand, palm up.

“Now,” says Crowley, brushing his fingertips across the palm. “What do you notice?”

Aziraphale can’t find words to describe the sudden and overwhelming sensations he experiences. 

“How does it feel? Feel any hellfire? Tingling? Uncomfortableness?”

Aziraphale recovers his tongue. “No, not....well... But that’s not terribly surprising. In the last few centuries, none of That has been as strong.”

"Right," says Crowley, "Weaker all the time. In the old days it used to be like fire and ice if we were too close to each other. Or like magnetic repulsion. Bit of an uncomfortable feeling if we were near each other, terrible jolt if we touched by accident. But now it is completely gone. We can be as close as we like and and don't have the slightest problem. Other than the local pugilists, that is."

“Think about it,” Crowley continues “You’ve been able to do minor curses for centuries. I can give blessings. And now you can do possessions. We aren't just an ordinary angel and demon anymore. We are....”

“Far better off,” Aziraphale supplies. He sighs. Then he smirks the wicked smirk that Crowley loves so well. “Well, considering all the things that the Heavenly Host has tried to do today, if I’m not an angel anymore, I say ‘Good Riddance.’ “

“Well, you are still My angel.” 

Aziraphale blushes, ducks his head slightly, and finally casts his blue eyes towards Crowley with warmth and affection. “And you are still My wily advisary. And, also...” he says, extending a hand “...my oldest and dearest friend.” 

Crowley takes both of his angel’s hands into his own and looks at him steadily. He instantly feels as though he is falling endlessly into a warm summer day. He feels as if he is floating in a small pocket universe that contains only the two of them. If he could see his own face, he would not recognize himself. His face has never before held an expression of pure bliss.

Aziraphale feels like he is falling. All certainty has disappeared. He has lost all sense of direction and he feels as if his entire body has been magnetized and is being drawn towards an inescapable vortex. It is Crowley and it also a black hole, spinning at unfathomable speeds, and he is orbiting it tighter and tighter and faster and faster, all the while plunging towards its invisible unknowable center. 

“Well then, it would be a heaven of a shame to let ourselves be annihilated anytime soon,” says Crowley, releasing his hands at last. 

“Yes, well, it was you who distracted me in the first place!” exclaims Aziraphale. He is flustered. He turns away and reaches into his coat pocket, first with one hand, and then the other. He begins to pat at his vest pocket and is about to stand up to check the seat and the floor when a flash of movement on his left side causes his eye to fall on the scrap of paper that Crowley is waving very slowly mere inches from his face. “Oh,” he says “I’d forgotten.” Crowley starts to put the paper away again.

Aziraphale refuses to engage in a wrestling match, but he does lean and reach across Crowley. “I need to be able to read it to put my thoughts together,” he pleads. 

“You aren’t the only clever one, Angel,” says Crowley, “And, I think it is long past time that you trusted me. I have a plan, a good one, and it is wily and it makes use of your newly acquired skills.” 

Aziraphale gives a trembling laugh. “Throwing elbows?”

Crowley' voice is very low. His lips are an inch from Aziraphale's ear. “Possess me Angel.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops open and his brow furrows for an instant before his eyes widen in understanding. He blushes from head to toe.


	2. Crowley's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale realizes that Crowley is not being entirely honest with him about the actual dangers of trying to possess one another's bodies.

“Bing.” 

Crowley has pressed the button for their stop before Aziraphale can begin to form coherent words. He stands up and Aziraphale follows suit, wobbling to his feet and grabbing the seatbacks in the aisle to keep himself from pitching over with with the motion of the bus as it turns a corner and slows down to a stop. Crowley slips ahead of him and practically dances down the aisle, while Aziraphale, with static in his ears, and the floor wobbling, is pulled along in his wake by an irresistable gravitational force. 

On the sidewalk, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand again. He grins from ear to ear. He begins to practically dance. He swings his free arm around in a grand gesture that encompasses sky and earth. “Fuck them all! We are going to win Angel! You and me, together. They won’t know what hit them.” 

Aziraphale feels like he is standing on the edge of a precipice. His balance feels unsteady. He can’t seem to see the ground underneath him. The distance from his head to his feet keeps changing. He feels as if there is wind blowing by his ears. There, ahead of him, Crowley seems to be floating in the air, buoyed by happiness and confidence. Aziraphale closes his eyes and sways on his feet. He feels a tremendous force surging from where his hand is held to his chest, where his pounding heart feels as though it is being pulled from his chest. He feels as if he will be torn apart if he doesn’t take a step forward. He opens his eyes and sees his best friend’s smile and steps forward into oblivion. 

Aziraphale’s mind is racing but, curiously, his thoughts are rushing by in such a blur that he can’t seem to pick out a single one to tell what it is. His body feels electrified, and the hand that holds Crowley’s hand is buzzing with overwhelming sensation. The low grey clouds reflect the city lights so softly and beautifully. He feels the warm and humid night air on his face, perceiving the microscopic droplets as they explode on his cheeks. The street lights seem to glow with extra warmth. The little front gardens and window boxes on Crowley’s street are charming and verdant. Every car that passes is a pulse of the the city’s life blood, filled with beautiful and kind humans. Aziraphale unconsciously gives a blessing to each car’s occupants, and when a boisterous group of young people pass on the sidewalk, dressed in tight dark clothes and wild make up, he gives them a bright smile and an accidental blessing that causes them to burst into a joyous and drunken cacophony of song. 

They laugh about the day’s events. They recall the ridiculous expressions on the humans' faces, the brilliant plans, the nonplussed expressions on the faces of their Demonic and Heavenly superiors when they foiled Armageddon. "Fuck Gabriel!", Aziraphale shouts, in a moment of bravado. "Fuck them all!", agrees Crowley. Completely unconscious of how battered and dirty their own clothes are, they sail past well dressed couples on the street and into the lobby of Crowley’s building. Crowley is pretending to be making fun of how Aziraphale has accidentally tried to bless a statue of a dog. The lift arrives instantly. As they get in, Crowley suddenly drops Aziraphale’s hand and clasps his own hand to his mouth. “Oh shit!” he says.

“I’m so sorry Angel, my place is a bit of a mess, I’d totally forgotten.”

“I won’t hold it at all against you,” winks Aziraphale. "Really, have you looked at us? We aren't exactly fit to stay at the Ritz."

Crowley seems curiously unamused. Now they are in the hallway, blessedly empty of people at this hour. Crowley hands Aziraphale the key to the flat a few feet before they reach the door. He waits there and waves Aziraphale onward. He has a pained look on his face. Aziraphale's racing mind allows him to wonder whether handing over the keys to one's flat is some kind of modern romantic gesture or whether he has completely misinterpreted Crowley's intentions. His hands are shaking. The key doesn't seem to work quite as he expects. He turns it back and forth a few times before fumbling the door open at last. He steps inside and finds the light switch. 

He does not shriek. 

The actual sound he makes is more of a slightly strangled gulp. 

There is a soaking wet pile of greasy black clothes piled atop a pair of tall black boots just a few feet down the hall in Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale is frozen. He can instantly sense that these clothes are consecrated in a very holy way and he has a sudden and terrible thought which is confirmed when Crowley, still standing several feet away from the door, nods.

"Had some company over earlier today. Forgot to mention." 

"Ah."

"It's perfectly safe as long as I just step around it."

"Are there any other.... er..... messes?"

"No, just the one."

They step inside the door and shut it behind them. Aziraphale carefully walks down the hall to the pile. "Should I give you a hand getting past this?" He steps deliberately past it and stands to one side, with his hand extended. A few careful steps past the damp and menacing pile and Crowley is safely inside the apartment. Aziraphale, still holding his hand very firmly, is rooted to the spot.

Aziraphale has always read broadly, and naturally, he had avidly devoured all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works back in the 1890's. However, he finds, as he gazes around the wreckage, that any ability to analyze a crime scene that he might have absorbed from the tales of Sherlock Holmes has been completely overwhelmed by a flood of terror and rage. His eyes fall on a melted plastic disc by the clothing pile, which, miraculously, had not tripped either of them up. He gestures towards it and makes a slight noise which Crowley interprets perfectly.

“Bucket of water over the door is the oldest trick in the book. Humans have been doing it for ages. As soon as they get doors, they start thinking of things to hang over them. It took out old Ligur right away. Pity that not a drop landed on Hastur. But things have a way of turning out just fine.”

The entryway between the living room and the adjoining office is a double wide archway. From where he stands by the door, Aziraphale can spot his own tartan thermos, with its cap on, sitting just beyond the desk in the next room. A pile of some black rubbery material is next to it on the floor. Tiny green plastic shards are scattered about the floor behind the desk and on top of it. A few largish pieces of rounded green plastic and what seems to be a spray nozzle are on the floor by the chair. 

“If there are any puddles over by the desk, they’re just ordinary water. No need to worry about them,” says the demon, helpfully. "Tea? Brandy?"

"Both."

In the kitchen, Aziraphale watches his friend put the kettle on in silence. Crowley falls into a chair, puts his elbows on the table and cradles his head in his hands. 

"Shall I.... take care of cleaning it up for you?", asks Aziraphale.

"No, don't bother. We can use it later as a test. Make sure the plan works before we head out to face the big boys."

Aziraphale hesitates. "About that plan?"

Crowley shakes his head like a dog and gets up to pour the hot water into the teapot. He sets two mugs on the counter and pours a generous shot of brandy into each one. He sits down in silence. He takes his glasses off and sets them on the table. He stares intensely at the angel, methodically moving his golden eyes over every inch of his hair, face and body, finishing up to stare at his hands. After a silent minute, he gets up, pours the tea out, and brings the steaming mugs over.

They warm their hands on the mugs in silence. 

Over the next ten minutes, Aziraphale watches Crowley drink his courage back. The angel allows himself a few fortifying sips and allows the caffeine and the alcohol do their work. He takes a deep breath and commits to the rest of the cup. He is no longer giddy, but if he sips at the proper rate, he can manage to remain suspended between bliss and terror. 

Crowley finds a sufficient portion of his normal cocky swagger at the bottom of his cup that he is able to flash a confident smile as he stands to pour himself a second round. "The plan," he says without preamble "Is that you take my body completely, possess me, just like you did with that human. You will have enough demonic protection with my body that you should be able to walk into either Heaven or Hell and nothing will affect you."

"And you take my body?"

"That's the idea."

Aziraphale nods. He looks over at his dearest friend and is filled with warmth and a resolve to protect him. He can do this. He sets down his mug resolutely. "Right. How do we get started?"

Crowley hesitates for a moment and flashes a disarming smile. "Well, you are the expert on possession."

"Me? I hardly think that one experience makes me an expert! I wouldn't know how to start without discorporating myself." Aziraphale says, modestly. "Better if you take the lead, dear boy. Just let me know what to do." Crowley looks at the table. He takes a long swig from his mug. They sit in silence for a very long minute. 

"But you're a demon! I thought demons were experts on possessing others. Isn't that in the job description?"

"Well, technically, yes. But it's fairly tricky. Complicated process. Lot of risks. Every decade or so some young demon has a possession go wrong and discorporates or destroys his demonic essence and then we all have to sit through another safety lecture."

"But you aren't a young demon. You must have plenty of experience..." He trails off as Crowley shakes his head no. "A few times at least?" Another shake. No. "Ever?" 

"Never got past the first step," says Crowley, at last, brushing away an invisible fly. In answer to Aziraphale's raised eyebrow, he continues: "Cruel, tawdry business, possessions. Never was to my taste."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Come on Angel! Do I have to spell it out for you? Do you think demons go around gently asking permission till they find just the right kindred spirit?"

Aziraphale's eyes go wide, and his brow wrinkles in thought, but his native kindheartedness is stronger than his imagination and he finally surrenders to incredulous silence. 

"Most humans don't just let their souls get loosened from their bodies. They put up a fight. It only works if they are vulnerable. They have to be beaten almost to death or overwhelmed with terror."

"So if a demon happens to come across some human that's just been attacked in a horrible way...." Aziraphale trails off into silence. 

Crowley waits.

"Oh," says the angel. "That's terrible." 

"Sometimes it's just a human that's suicidal or one that's just drunk himself almost to death. Anyway, they force their way into his body and take over. Maybe they have him attack his friends or family in some ghastly way, and he's aware of it and screaming in his own mind and unable to stop it the whole time, and when they are done, if there is any shred of his soul left, they leave it, and the body, in ruins and then go back and return to their own corporation."

"Oh my!"

"It get worse." Crowley continues ruthlessly, "A lot of the young ones forget and leave their own corporation empty for too long, so it dies, and then they need to find a new body." 

"I don't need to hear that part," says Aziraphale. 

"The thing is, today, you showed me that a possession didn't have to be that way."

"But I didn't even know what I was doing. I was making it up."

"Right. Do you have any idea of how many centuries of terrible training demonstrations demons have to go through before they even attempt their first possession? You did it on your first day. You, my friend, are brilliant at this. And you are going to possess me." He gets up to fix himself another drink. 

"Assuming I even succeed, what happens next?" Aziraphale says to Crowley's back. 

"Well, since you are the expert on possession, you can teach me how, and by the time they come looking for us, I'll be able to do it too."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "Is that why you are drinking so heavily? Are you trying to drink yourself almost to death to make it easier for me to possess you?"

"No, I'm drinking because I like drinking."

Aziraphale huffs in disbelief. "Then what IS your plan?"

Crowley takes a long sip of his fortified tea. "Well," he finally says, "I thought that, of the available options, having sex would be the most pleasant." A quick glance at Aziraphale's stunned face causes him to triple the tempo of his words. "I mean, I can't think of a faster way to generate an out of body experience, and you could take me, and take, well, everything, all at the same moment." 

"But we've never... I don't really know that I can... "

"I'm sure you can figure it out. You can do two things at once. You are the smartest angel I know. And I'm not that bad to look at, am I?"

"It's not that I don't find you.... it's just not that simple for me." He finishes lamely. "It isn't really the right time."

"This IS our time! Just think about it Angel!", says Crowley, expansively. He gets up and opens the kitchen window. "Heaven and Hell are never going to be more distracted than they are tonight." Crowley drops his phone out the window and smirks at the clatter when it hits the ground. He twirls across the floor grinning with manic energy. "No demonic Elf on a Shelf watching me tonight! No more celestial chastity belt for you! We are free!" 

Aziraphale's face darkens. He stands up, chewing on his lower lip as he regards Crowley. He speaks levelly. "You are drunk, and so, in fifteen minutes, when you realize how awfully you have just behaved, I am going to forgive you." He turns on his heel and walks out of the room. 


	3. Time Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale storms off to take a shower. Crowley asks Agnes for help. Aziraphale figures out the demon's real plans. Crowley apologizes. 

Crowley is staring at the outside of his own bathroom door. 

"Angel?", he says. "Please come out." 

"I didn't mean to make you so upset. We can come up with another plan."

The water in the sink turns on.

"Please talk to me," Crowley says to the silent door.

A muffled voice replies: "I've had quite enough of your plans for the time being. I am going to take a shower." 

Crowley hears the sounds of cupboards and drawers opening and shutting. “Towels are on the second shelf in the big cupboard in the corner." 

“Extra toothbrushes are in the middle drawer on the left hand side of the sinks,” he adds.

“There’s a nail brush on a little shelf in the shower if you need it.”

There is no reply. He hears the water start up and then stop and then start again. 

“Shower can be a bit tricky. Just point one of the taps straight up and pull on the top knob.”

"Right then, just shout if you need something,” he says, finally.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley stalks to his bedroom, shuts the door, and leans against it. Then he slides down the door and crumples to the floor with his head on his knees. In silence, he winds his fists into the hair on both sides of his head. 

“Cocked that one up completely,” he says at last. Crowley lets his head drop into his arms. 

“Agnes,” he finally says to the ceiling “This is all your fault. I did what you said. Now, I'm alone in my room. Aziraphale is furious at me.” He takes a deep breath and snorts in disgust. "And", he tells the ceiling as he stands up, "I smell like some ghastly combination of a tire fire and a gunpowder factory."

He pulls his jacket off and throws it onto the floor. He sniffs his shirt and makes an unpleasant face. The shirt has all the same odors but also is suffused with sweat. He strips it off. His shoes are caked with grey ash. His pants have their own atmosphere of grey clouds. His socks are stiff with sweat and dirt. 

"I'm not going to die smelling like this Agnes!" 

He realizes that if he takes off his undershirt and underpants, he will still be filthy, but yet also naked, which would be worse. If he puts anything clean on, it will just make him feel more grubby. He aims a vicious kick at his clothes. 

“What do you expect me to do now Agnes Nutter? Just sit here and wait for heaven or hell to dispatch us both?” 

He sprawls into a chair and runs his fingers through the grease in his hair. “I was heroic, wasn’t I?” he asks the ceiling. “Killed a demon, came to the rescue, destroyed my car in a fireball… It's not fair, making me do all that just to have it all end.”

"It's too soon," he says to the ceiling. 

He closes his eyes. "Please Agnes," he says "I'm begging you. You can't let him die after all that. You just can't go around saving your own relatives and letting him die. He's the one who figured it all out, isn't he? If it weren't for him, we wouldn't even have been there to help out."

Crowley listens to the distant sound of the shower for a long time. “You are useless!” he finally shouts at the ceiling.

His eyes fall on a tiny and scorched scrap of paper that is now half-hanging out of his jacket pocket on the floor. He stalks over, swipes it up, and sits back down. He moves his eyes over the now familiar prophecy. He flicks the paper over in irritation. On the back are a few words from the prophecy that had been on the opposite side of the page in the book. 

There are three legible words: "humble" and “tidy somme.”

Cursing, he finds a large garbage bag and throws the clothes and shoes in. He ties it shut and throws it into the back of the closet. He storms around the room picking up laundry and then he pulls the bag from the closet and stuffs them in. He picks up trash and stacks magazines and newspapers into a box. He tugs the bedspread straight. 

Then he paces the floor a few times, steels himself, opens the bedroom door, heads down the hall and starts knocking on the bathroom door. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale has not had such a sumptuous bathing experience since the fall of the Roman Empire. It took him a handful of minutes to get the hang of the various jets and sprinkler heads, but now he is being pummeled from three sides by plentiful hot water. It is a sinfully luxurious indulgence, and he allows himself to drift into mindlessness as the tension is beaten out of his muscles and great clouds of steam roll up over his body. 

One of Aziraphale's great virtues, or vices, is that he can completely give himself over to earthly pleasures. When he indulges, as in this case, with a luxury shower, he is completely a creature of the moment, and his body and mind experience pure pleasure. His mind and body and soul heal themselves and begin to exude a surfeit of healing and joy that bathes, as it were, everyone around him. This is why Crowley likes to dine with Aziraphale. He can experience some sort of grace by simply being in the presence of the angel while he indulges.

Of course, Crowley is locked out of the bathroom right now. Aziraphale is taking some time for himself. 

After 15 minutes of hot water massage has melted every possible bit of tension from his body, Aziraphale finally opens his eyes. He looks around for some shampoo. This requires a bit of walking around, as the shower is no mere stall, but a grand glassed in demi-room 10 feet wide and 5 feet deep. The end where Aziraphale has been standing has tile and jets on three sides. There are three shower heads, like enormous sunflower heads, hanging from the ceiling, one for each of three zones. The zone near the entrance, away from the jets, has a glass wall, a fold-up teak bench mounted to the wall next to a hand held shower wand, several grab bars and its own little recessed cubby holding a few bottles of what might be shower gel. The middle zone has a number of little recessed ledges built along the tiled back wall. One holds a loofa, another the promised nail brush together with a pumice stone and bar of scented soap, a third has two types of shampoo and several cremes and oils. Aziraphale stops at the shampoos, selects one at random, and then doubles back, taking the loofah, soap, and nail brush back with him, setting them on a shelf built conveniently into the corner. 

The angel fiddles with the tap to produce a shower, like warm rainwater, from above, and then begins to lather his hair. As he runs his fingers backwards through his hair to rinse the shampoo out, he finally allows himself to think, the ordered ritual of bathing helping him to organize his thoughts. 

First things first: He and Crowley have at least a few hours to make a plan to save themselves from the angry scions of heaven and hell. As he scrubs his face and behind his ears, Aziraphale tries to think of a better plan than Crowley's. By the time he reaches his chest, he has concluded that, despite the risks, there is no better plan than to try to possess each other. He inhales the familiar, spicy-musky scent of the soap and thinks of his favorite demon. It is just like him to make a fragile, insane plan that could just as easily end their lives as save them. But why try to work sex into it? And what did he plan to do if Aziraphale's body died, and they were both stuck sharing Crowley's? Surely that couldn't work long term. 

Aziraphale raises one arm to wash under it. He is circling around the thing that was bothering him when he was talking to Crowley in the kitchen. He finishes one armpit and switches the loofah to the other hand. His mind wanders in circles as he scrubs. Then, all at once, he understands. Crowley doesn't expect to be able to possess Aziraphale. When he fails, he is going to abandon his body to the angel to shield him against hellfire. The sex? A last gift. Or a last request. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley stands in front of the bathroom door. He listens. The shower is no longer running. He knocks. "Angel?" he says, his voice cracking. "Can we talk?"

The door opens. Aziraphale is fresh from the shower, his chest is bare and pink and steaming. His midsection is wrapped in a long fluffy towel. The hair on his head is tightly curled ringlets of white. 

After the first glimpse, Crowley doesn't trust himself to look directly at his angel, so he studies the wall over by the toilet.

"Come on in. We do need to talk." 

There is a teak bench on one side of the enormous bathroom room. Crowley folds down the seat of the toilet and sits on it, gesturing for the angel to take the bench. He stares at his own feet. He's drunk. He is wearing sweat soaked undergarments. "Angel. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so crass. You deserve so much better." He looks up, with watery eyes. "It's just... there isn't much time... and I..."

Aziraphale cuts over him. "You were trying to keep me distracted so that I wouldn't realize that you were planning to save me at considerable risk to your own life." 

Crowley lets out a low whistle of appreciation. "Well. Fuck." 

"My dear, have you ever read 'The Gift of the Magi'?"

Crowley shakes his head no.

"Well, I'll explain it a different way. Living the rest of my life as an immortal in your body, with you gone, would be an eternity of torment for me." Aziraphale cocks his head to the side, and says, gently, "You idiot. How you could you even think to do that to me?"

Aziraphale crosses the room and crouches awkwardly on the tile floor in front of Crowley. He takes the demon's hands into his own and looks deep into his eyes. "This is what matters," he says. "You and me staying together. We will try your plan. But we live or die together. I won't be without you." 

Crowley's mouth is hanging open. He is blinking rapidly. The warmth in his hands and the floating sensation are overwhelming his sense of balance. His mind is muzzy and confused from the alcohol. He can't focus on the angel's eyes. They are overwhelming. Suddenly, Aziraphale's hand is underneath his chin, lifting it up. His lips explode with sensation as the angel presses a perfect sweet kiss to his lips. 

"Now, lets talk about sex," says the angel. 


	4. So Many Ways to Share Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is not a sexual being; Crowley is. They find a creative and mutually satisfactory way to share their bodies. 

"The problem," Aziraphale is saying, "is that, as much as I love you, and as attractive as you are to me, my body is just not capable of having sex in the way you are thinking."

Crowley is shocked. He stares and stammers. "You do?" 

Aziraphale thinks that Crowley is a bit too drunk to follow the thread of the conversation. He pats the demon on the knee and says, very gently "I really do want to be close to you in any way that I can, but you see, my, ahem, male organ is purely ornamental. I am so sorry. You must be so disappointed. It's just that we ethereal beings have no need for non-procreative....."

Crowley interrupts. "How long have you loved me for?"

Aziraphale isn't sure how to answer. He casts his mind back to find a time that he didn't love Crowley. Should he talk about the first time he saw Crowley in Eden? The first time he realized that he missed him? He finally says "I think I always did, but I think I didn't know that the word for how I felt was love until the day you saved my books after the Blitz." 

"Why didn't you say something then?" 

"How long have you known that you loved me?" counters Aziraphale.

"Since the beginning."

"But why did you never...."

"I didn't want you to Fall. And I didn't want you to love me out of angelic pity either." 

"I never would have pitied you."

Crowley feels very pitiful right now. He is listing towards the wall. The cool tile contrasts with the feeling of the angel's warm hand on his knee. He feels like he is spinning in circles around the point of contact between his forehead and the wall. 

"It's no good anyway if you aren't able to enjoy it," Crowley says, finally. "I hate them! How could they do that to you? They give you this beautiful body and then, by the way, it's broken and doesn't even work properly when you want it to. Bastards." 

"I beg your pardon!" exclaims Aziraphale. "I am most certainly not 'broken'. Everything works exactly as it's supposed to. It just only works in That particular way when its needed. By Heaven."

"But would you ever want to? If you could?"

Aziraphale huffs with indignation. Crowley has hit another sore spot. "Actually, a little over two thousand years ago, I was given, well, an assignment, that required sexual congress with a human."

"What happened?"

"I turned it down."

"Weren't you even curious?"

"If you must know, Crowley, I went to the appointed place, and it was a fourteen year old girl, and I just couldn't bring myself to do it, so I went back up to heaven and told them 'No'."

"Shit. What happened?"

"It turned out that it was a very time sensitive assignment, and I was severely reprimanded."

"What about the girl?"

"Well.... Gabriel took over and he..."

"Appeared unto her?", Crowley offers. Aziraphale nods grimly. "I always hated that asshole," Crowley says. 

"I felt so sick about the whole thing. But at least I was able to convince a very nice boy to marry her before she was showing too much. And I sent along some money when the baby was born, to help tide them over."

"You really are the best of them all, Angel." Crowley closes his eyes and takes a deep and ragged breath. "We don't need to try sex if you can't enjoy it. We'll think of something else."

"We go out to dinner, and you don't enjoy eating." 

"I enjoy it with you."

"Exactly," says Aziraphale. "Now. Why don't we start by getting you cleaned up?"

Crowley nods. "Give me a minute to sober up a bit." He squeezes his face and strains and wills the alcohol out of his system. In the kitchen, a bottle of brandy that he had killed is now suddenly three quarters full. Pushing himself up along the wall, he stands up. Seeing that the angel is still squatting near the floor, he extends a hand, and almost falls over again. The overwhelming warmth and love is dizzying. He steadies himself against the wall as his angel nearly falls against him. He wants to fold Aziraphale into his arms, but then he remembers his sweat soaked clothes and forces himself to retreat over to the shower. 

Crowley feels himself pull open the glass door, turn on the nearest tap to warm the shower, flip the shower bench up against the wall, close the door, and then he abruptly runs out of automatic actions. Should he take his clothes off? Should he wait for the angel to leave? He turns around timidly and quickly glances at the angel's face. Aziraphale is smiling at him with beatific warmth. Crowley feels his mouth open and close. "Did you want to join me?", "It's okay, if you don't," and "I'm not sure what to do next," are some of the words that do not emerge from his mouth because his traitorous throat has choked shut and, try as he might, he can only make small soft wordless noises as his angel slowly crosses the room toward him. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley is the most worldly of all the demons in hell, and after six millennia he has a reasonably wide range of sexual observations to draw upon. While it has been comparatively rare that he has actually been interested enough in a human to have sex with them for the pure physical pleasure, Crowley has found, that if a demon wishes to incite conflict and strife then he should spend as much time as possible perched in some famous lap or another at the smoky edge of a lewd and drunken party. With a few caresses and a few whispered words, he can set into motion lurid events whose fallout will wag tongues all over a modest sized citystate for months. In the last 50 years, he has particularly enjoyed multiplying the value of his strife via the tabloids. Whenever he makes the cover of any of them, he nicks a copy off the newstands to take home. He now has over 250 of them in a box under his bed. 

On the relatively rare occasions when Crowley does have sex, the physical sensation of intercourse with a human is not nearly as thrilling as that delicious moment when the door bangs open, and there he is caught in midstroke, about to plunge back into a lover who rightfully belongs to the enraged Somebody Else now backlit in the doorway. Over the years, he has perfected the surprised half turn of his hips that reveals just a few inches of cock, the slow disdainful smirk and the artfully chosen words. It is almost always worth the pain that follows.

At this moment, all of Crowley's varied experiences are useless to him. A failed Cassanova, still in his filthy undergarments, he is pinned like a bug on a windshield to the glass of one of the most decadent showers in all of London. A rosy and smiling angel wrapped in a large fuzzy towel is closing in on him with unknowable intentions. Crowley cannot bear to look in the angel's eyes, but even with his eyes averted the emotions radiating off of Aziraphale are overwhelming. Inescapable feelings of reverence and compassion and warmth are threatening to drown Crowley. This jaded veteran of tens of thousands of revels, orgies, and film crew after-parties now lets out a startled gasp as he is overcome by the sudden flushing of his skin and the equally unexpected and suddenly insistent throbbing of a very important organ. 

It is his heart. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale gently helps the trembling demon to take off his undershirt. At the barest touch of the angel's fingers along his ribs, Crowley gasps and shudders. He closes his eyes and turns his head. 

"Is it alright if I help you out of your pants?" 

Crowley nods, still squeezing his eyes shut. He can feel the angel's fingers. They trace swift, gentle trails from his hips to his thighs, and then they are gone. 

"Put your hands on my shoulders, so you can step out of them." 

Crowley is entirely like a rag doll. He is swaying on his feet. He feels like he is being buffeted by a warm summer windstorm. He feels his arms lifted one by one and then he grasps onto something warm and stable and strong and then lets his feet be lifted and placed down. He finds himself walking and then feels the warmth under his hands recede as the more familiar and considerably less terrifying warmth of the shower water begins to pour over his head and shoulders. 

An eternity passes and then he feels a warm cloth on his back, making small slow circles that gentle him and slow the beating of his heart. The warm cloth circles his shoulders, back, then up the sides of his ribs, and round to the front. Time stretches out forever. His chest, his neck, under his jaw, his cheek. He is dissolved in sensation and his terror slowly transmutes to grace. He is can not move, nor speak, and all of his consciousness is floating somewhere around his body as the angel gently washes his eyelids, his forehead and now, with gentle scratching, lathers his hair, tilting his head gently backwards and working slowly from the front of his hairline, slowly over and around, and all the way to his neck. 

Then, a hand on his forehead, a warm sluice of water from an unseen cup, and fingers run through his hair. Another sluice, and the water slips though his hair, and the warm water runs down the center of his back, along his spine, and down, down, down, and fingers follow the water and they are gently massaging his butt, and the cloth follows making circles and swirls as it follows the water around the back of his legs and down towards his feet. 

His hands are placed onto the steadying firmness of the angel's shoulders. His foot is lifted and and caressed with the warm cloth. The cloth traces around the bones of his ankle, around and gently between each toe. There is a warm pressing of flesh against the top and sides of his foot, and he feels a gentle and reverent kiss to the top of his foot. 

Aziraphale hasn't washed anyone's feet in almost a thousand years, but his hands still remember how to perform this ancient and intimate act. He picks up Crowley's second foot and slowly caresses and cleans. When the dirt and grime are washed away, Aziraphale murmurs "there is no part of you that is so low as to be unworthy of my love", and then he touches his forehead to the top of Crowley's foot, and then each cheek, and he completes the blessing with a kiss. 

Still kneeling in front of his lover, Aziraphale begins to work the washcloth up in small circles along the inside of Crowley's leg. Then, down again, and back up the other leg, gently separating them, and now, with great trepidation, he begins the greatest intimacy, carefully watching Crowley's face for some clue as he very gently brings his fingers and cloth to where his lover's sex lies in a nest of auburn.

The slightest touch of the cloth draws a guttural wail from Crowley, so Aziraphale drops the cloth to the floor and slips the bar of soap between his fingers and begins to slowly work his way from the rear, allowing his fingers to make slow circles that slide around and between the muscles, along the channel of his lover's ass, delicately circling a soft depression which draws another wail. He isn't sure if this is a sound of pain or pleasure, and so he quickly slides his soap slicked hands forward and gently cups his lover's most delicate organs, feeling them move slightly under his touch. 

And now, next to his cheek, he is brushed by his lover's sex as it unfurls and fills and stands, pointed up toward the light. Aziraphale tentatively brushes his fingers along its length, and Crowley cries out. His face is twisted and his eyes are squeezed shut, and Aziraphale dares not risk anything more. He squeezes gently on his lover's thighs, and then slowly raises himself to standing. 

"I'm not sure how to do this," he whispers. "I need you to tell me what to do." 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale slips his arms around Crowley, and searches his face for some help. "I do want to bring you pleasure my dear." He is confused to discover that Crowley is crying and he isn't sure how long he has been crying, because the water has been washing the tears away. The angel begins to comfort him, kissing his cheeks and smoothing his tears away with his thumbs. "I'm so sorry that I can't give you what you expected. You waited so long and I just want..."

Crowley pulls his angel close and covers his mouth with a fierce kiss. He pushes him up against the wall of the shower, pressing his whole body up against him. He pushes his hard cock against the softness of the angel's belly and then nestles his erection into the depression of the angel's hip. He cups the angel's face in both hands. His eyes are blown wide-- yellow to the edge, with wide oval pupils staring directly into the angel's eyes. 

"You don't apologize," Crowley says. "Angel, my Angel. How can I make you understand?" He kisses his forehead and runs his thumbs along the crinkles at the corners of the angel's eyes. He whispers in the angel's ear. "In six thousand years, no one has ever done for me what you just did." Crowley shudders and rubs his hard cock against the angel. He whispers into his ear. "Now it's my turn."

He steps back, regards Aziraphale steadily, studying the trepidation in his face. He picks up a small bottle from a shelf next to the angel and empties the contents into his hand. He pulls Aziraphale against his side with one arm and takes hold of his own cock with his other hand. Aziraphale feels all the muscles of Crowley's chest and torso tight and tense. "You can have this too, Angel. I want you to share it."

Aziraphale doesn't understand. Crowley slides fingers along his own length and presses his mouth to Aziraphale's. Aziraphale tentatively kisses the demon and Crowley bites and pulls the angel's lip and then pants urgent words into his mouth. "You've got to get inside me now." He makes a single slow stroke and then shudders with the effort of stopping. "Ride my pleasure. Share my body. NOW ANGEL!" 

Aziraphale threads his fingers around the back of the demon's neck and pulls him into a kiss, opening his lips and sucking the demon's tongue, pulling some invisible thing loose, as he feels Crowley's body rocking slowly against him. The demon gasps against his mouth, exhaling a bit of his soul, which Aziraphale sucks into himself, stretching the connection between it and the demon, as he imprisons it, a swirling, dense dark orb inside his belly. 

"That," whispers the angel, "is insurance, in case you were thinking of going back on your promise to never leave me." Now there is a little space for him to enter his lover's body. He breathes out into the demon's mouth and pushes his way in and down, flowing downward towards the concentrated point where all of the racking pleasure originates. 

Aziraphale pushes in much more of himself than he took out from the demon, selfishly, greedily, expanding inside, pulled by an inescapable gravity, down and down. He feels the slick fingers expertly teasing around the head of his cock. Each slip and slide brings frissons of pleasure, and each tug brings him closer to a greater pleasure that he wants now with a single-mindedness that he has never felt before. He finds that he can move his hand, for now it is his, and he tries to move it faster to give himself the release he needs. 

"Easy does it, my love," says Crowley. The angel's body is writhing up against his, its hips thrusting erratically, hands limp and twitching, its head slumped against the demon's shoulder. Crowley is holding Aziraphale's body tightly against his side to keep from tipping over. He pushes aside the sensations of his own body enough that he is able to force the angel's body tightly against the wall and lock his legs to hold both of them upright. With some exertion of will over a strangely distant part of his consciousness, he tightens the angel's stomach muscles enough to keep the angel's body from slumping over. In that moment, he loses control over the movements of his own hand.  
  
"Angel, you are going to hurt me!", he cries. A sudden pain seizes him but he was expecting it, and the shock of it allows him to win a silent internal struggle. In an act of great will, he loosens the grip of his own fist. He feels himself panting. Without dropping Aziraphale's limp body, he manages to twist around and grab the bottle of lube. "Now," he says firmly, "stop trying to drive." He slips his fingers very slowly up and down his battered cock, feeling himself harden again as the delicate and gentle sensations replace what came before. He feels the angel's confusion swirling inside him. "I know how much you want to chase it, my darling, but it will be much better in the end if we go slow. Please let me be the one to take us there." 

And he does. With soft, slow, gentle strokes that gradually give way to faster ones, he builds their pleasure. He feels Aziraphale's confidence return, and his body fills with bubbles of incandescent delight. Aziraphale's joyous feelings rise up through the dark and urgent pleasure of their approaching climax. He uses all of his artful tricks. Long slow strokes alternated with firm fast ones. The slight twist at just the right moment. The wet thumb circling the sensitive spot just under the ridge of his head. He feels Aziraphale's mouth against his ear, moving silently in synchrony with the gasping pleasure sounds that are coming from his own mouth. The effort keeping two bodies balanced on a wet tile floor is making it all very challenging. His own physical sensations are a bit muted. But he feels Aziraphale's experience of the feeling of the pleasure building and that heightens his own pleasure and the angel's cries push him higher and higher until the feeling is nearly unbearable. He feels the angel's momentary panic as small unseen muscles begin to clench and tighten deep inside their abdomen. "Just let it wash over you, Angel," is the last thing he manages to say before he plunges them both into oblivion. 


	5. Changing Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodyswapping is difficult but Aziraphale will find a way to make it work.

Crowley feels the cold tile against his cheek. He isn't sure where he is. There is something warm and heavy on top of him. Or maybe underneath him. Either way, he isn't very bothered by it. He is basking in the sun, his body floating in a warm ocean of pleasure. He hears some cooing sounds and, in the distance, rain. All of it is wonderful. It is a perfect summer day. He listens for a good long while. Eventually, a voice from nearby murmurs "That was a most amazing experience." 

He is with Aziraphale. He feels himself surrounded by the presence of the angel. He can feel the angel's bliss and it fills his senses. Any needs that his body might have seem very distant. There might be a throbbing in the back of his head, but it hardly matters. He isn't sure how he can be lying on something that is hard and wet, and also on top of something alive. It is too hard to concentrate on that complicated riddle. He chooses to feel joy and warmth. 

"Very enjoyable," he hears his own voice say, "I hadn't expected it to be so compelling." Inside himself, he feels the angel's contented hum. He floats on the sound of it. He isn't sure if it is a sound, but it seems louder than the sound of the rain. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale stops speaking. He opens his eyes and tries to raise his head. He sees a tangle of legs and can't quite figure out which ones belong to him. It doesn't matter. He lays his head on the tile, lets himself enjoy the residual sensations. His eyes eventually drift open and watch the shower heads running above him. He listens to the patter of the droplets. Suddenly his vision starts to swirl. The tile two is inches away from his nose and yet the shower head is still 8 feet away on the ceiling. He tries to speak and hears a voice next to his ear. "I'm a bit dizzy", it says. It doesn't sound like his voice. He isn't sure. He closes his eyes. He wants to hold his lover in his arms, but one of his arms seems to be pinned under something. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley is drifting in space when, from a great distance, he hears his own voice. "My dear," says Crowley's voice, "I don't want to alarm you, but I think we are a bit mixed up." He opens his eyes. Double vision. He closes them. His voice continues: "I was afraid something like this might happen." 

"Well," his voice tells him, "I think it best if we get ourselves someplace more comfortable."

"Can you move your legs, dear?" his voice asks him. He concentrates, but his legs seem to be tangled in something. 

"Crowley. Can you talk to me my dear?" 

He thinks that he mutters "S'allright, I'm great," but he can't hear himself speaking.

"I'm going take control of your body now, but I want you to stay close, alright my dear?"

"No worries," is what he thinks he says. 

His eyes open again and he sees double, but he seems to be having trouble closing them. He can feel himself trying to sit up, trying to shift the weight on top of him, and he feels vertigo. He can't seem to tell which way he is moving, and then suddenly the side of his head hits the tile.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale can only barely feel the pain when he accidentally bobbles his own body to the floor. This is because most of his awareness, his soul if you will, is in Crowley's body. Crowley's soul, on the other hand, seems to be floating about between three places: his own body, Aziraphale's and the general area around them. Aziraphale knows this because he is paying very careful attention to everything Crowley is feeling. 

Aziraphale tries to look over his own body, which is lying on its side against the wall. He, too, is experiencing double vision. It is made worse by the fact that he can feel Crowley's vertigo every time he moves. He drapes a damp cloth over his own body's eyes. 

_Oh that's better, that. Very clever of you, Angel._ Aziraphale can hear the words in his mind.

"Now, Crowley, can you move my body at all?", asks Aziraphale. There is an answering twitch from his own body's foot.

"That's not much to work with," says the angel. "Still, I think we'd better move someplace more comfortable before we try to fix that. Can you stay very close to me, my dear?"

_Follow you anywhere, Angel._

Aziraphale turns off the taps. He makes an attempt to lift his own body, and then decides that the better plan is to drag himself along the floor. Fortunately there isn't a ledge to the shower. A towel will make things easier, he thinks, and, fortunately, Crowley has very large ones. He finds one, rolls his own body onto it, grabs the corners, and starts to drag. 

_Ouch!_ Aziraphale has barked his own body's shoulder on the edge of the glass doorframe. 

"Sorry my dear."

Bent double, Aziraphale drags his own body out of the bathroom. He pauses, and finds the bedroom. Down the hall, through the door, across the floor. 

"I don't think I can lift you onto the bed, darling."

_S'Okay, that's why I cleaned the floor anyway._

"Well, I'll grab you a pillow at least. And a blanket."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale is staring at his own body. It is lying on its back on the floor of Crowley's bedroom, wrapped in a comforter, with a pillow under its head, and its eyes covered by a cloth. The angel himself is in Crowley's body. He has found himself a robe and he is sitting in a chair, having an argument with Crowley, with whom he is partially sharing Crowley's body. Crowley is rather dim witted at the moment because his consciousness is split three ways between his own body, the body on the floor, and blissfully floating about in the air in Aziraphale's general vicinity.

"Crowley, I need you to pull yourself together and take possession of my body," says the angel.

_Naw, s'okay, don't worry about it angel. I'm great._ The voice inside his head is muzzy.

"Crowley, this is quite serious. We need to prepare ourselves. Heaven and Hell could be here in only a few hours, and I need you to get into my body."

_Was good, wasn't it? Told you sex was worth doing._

"Yes, my dear, it was a wondrous experience, and I am very grateful indeed to have been able to share it with you."

_S'not all I could do for you, Angel. Lots of stuff I could do. Make your toes curl._

"Darling, that is the point I am trying to make. If we ever hope to do anything at all together in future, we need to survive the next few hours, and that requires you to do as I say and move yourself into my body. Now, let's have a little focus." 

_I like feeling you around me like this. So lovely. Like a warm bath. Better than._

"I find sharing with you very comforting as well my dear, and I'm sure we can do it again, but presently, we need to get you moved along the rest of the way into my body. Now," Aziraphale kneels next to his body and strokes his own cheek "can you feel me touching my body?" 

_Oh yes, lovely. Keep on doing that._

"I want to you to follow the sensation, and inhabit my body fully."

The body under his hands stirs a bit. Ten minutes later, after much urging and wheedling from Aziraphale, Crowley has managed to control the body enough to make a small smile of contentment grace its features as its head slumps against the hand stroking its cheek.

"Crowley! I need you to put some effort in."

_Being with you. So nice. Better n' heaven ever was._

Aziraphale decides that it is time for a change of strategy. "Crowley, I am going to move back into my own body. I want you to come with me."

_Why are we doing that?_

"If you want to keep feeling my presence, you will have to come along," the angel says firmly. He bends over, and with Crowley's lips, he kisses his own, and then he begins to pour himself back into his own body, pulling the demon's soul along with him. 

He opens his own eyes, finds himself unable to see, and realizes, too late, that his arms are under the blanket and that the demon's body, slumped on top of him, is pinning him down.

_This isn't as good Aziraphale. This body doesn't have any afterglow._

"Yes my dear," says the Angel patiently, "But nevertheless, it is yours for the time being. Now, are you all here with me?"

He feels the demon's awareness spreading out in their shared body. Then he hears his own voice speaking "Yes, I think I've got it all. Right. Did you know we are stuck wrapped in a blanket? That's not good planning."

"I will take care of that in a moment. Now, are you settled?"

"I don't want you to leave."

"I know, darling. But you understand why I have to. This is your own plan after all."

Their shared body takes a few deep breaths. "Right. You can go. I'll stay here. I promise."

"Good boy."

Aziraphale has left a little of his own awareness behind in Crowley's body, and he is able, with great effort, to push the rest of his soul-stuff back in to the demon's body. He opens his new eyes and pulls himself up off his own chest. He removes the cloth from his own body's face. His own wide blue eyes are dancing over his face with an expression of triumph. 

"Angel! You've done it!" 

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Crowley is lying on the bed, watching his best friend trying to get dressed. Aziraphale is standing in front of the mirror, wearing Crowley's body, scowling as he tries to pull on a pair of tight trousers. There are two discarded pairs on the chair next to him.

"These are simply too uncomfortable. "

"Told you. You need the right underpants or it doesn't work."

"You should be getting dressed yourself," says Aziraphale. "You can't just lie around naked waiting for them to come for you."

"Look who's talking, Angel. You are stalling."

"Am not!" the slim figure tries to pull the edges of the zipper together. 

"Do you want a hand with getting everything adjusted?", says Crowley, with a sly grin.

"Absolutely not!"

"Don't trust me?"

"I just spent the better part of an hour stuffing you into my body. You aren't touching this one again until this is all over. You have absolutely no self-control. "

"This from the entity that nearly pulled off my..."

"That's quite enough!", says the angel, as he finally clasps his trousers. "We have things to do before we are ready."

"So let's get to the most important one first," says Crowley, crossing to the door. "I'm heading to the living room."

"There is a giant uncovered window in that room!", says the scandalized angel.

"S'London. Free shows are part of the joy of high-rise living. By now anyone who looks in my window knows what they're likely to see." Crowley saunters out. 

"But that's MY body!" 

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In the moment it takes for him to choose between pulling up his zipper and chasing Crowley, Crowley has already reached the living room. Aziraphale skitters in after him, nearly losing his balance. 

Crowley turns around and flashes a crooked smile with Aziraphale's face. "You need to learn how to walk in those trousers. You'll burst the seams trying to run like that." He takes a half-step toward the ominous damp pile.

Aziraphale squeals and grabs his hand to pull him back. 

"I think it's worked, Angel. It doesn't feel dangerous to me. You?"

"Let's just take it very slow. No need to rush."

Hand in hand, they walk towards it. With every step, Aziraphale pauses them both to scan his own face for any sign of demonic distress. 

"Right," says the angel. "I'll go first." He takes a deep breath and fills Crowley's body with his strongest angelic protections. Then he prods the damp cloth with his toe.

"Feel anything?"

"Nothing bad. Just feels like it normally would."

"Toes look fine to me."

"I don't feel anything whatsoever."

"Okay," says Crowley, "My turn." He extends Aziraphale's pale foot toward the pile and steps lightly onto it. He feels dampness. Only dampness. "It's still holy, right?" 

"Yes. Completely holy. I can feel the holiness." Aziraphale sees his own face light up. "We've done it! We are going to live!", shouts his other self. His own arms throw themselves around him and sweep him up. His own lips kiss him again and again. He is spinning and dizzy. He can't tell where angel ends and demon begins, and he doesn't care. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the building across the street, a weary woman looks up from her computer. It is an hour before sunrise. She couldn't sleep because of the pain, so she decided to try to catch up on work. She is in danger of losing her beloved job because she's been sick for over a year. She is past the point of doing any useful work tonight, she can't sleep, and she can't stand reading any more of the "patient support" forums. 

She decides to go to the window and check on the only other person who is likely to be awake at this hour: the skinny man who lives alone in the great big flat across the street. He seems to love to waste electricity, and he is always easy to spot, dozing alone on his couch with all the lights on on or flipping through TV stations. 

She looks out from her window, and, as usual, the picture window of his living room is lit up like a stage. But tonight, he isn't lying alone on the couch. He is barefoot and shirtless and completely wrapped up in the arms of a naked white haired man. The white haired man has swept him up into his arms. They are kissing and spinning in circles. The skinny man tosses his head back in joyous laughter. She drinks in the sight. "Well," she says, with a nod of approval, "Good for you!" 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fiction of any kind. Be kind and constructive. Kudos appreciated. Feedback appreciated.


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